


I Need You

by CrashTrash



Category: Mad Max (Video Game 2015)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Drug Addiction, First Meetings, Growing up in the wasteland, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Manipulation, Omega Outcrier, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn, Sorry Not Sorry, Suicidal Thoughts, alpha Lectricy, backstory headcanon, this is a mostly sad story, yes this is one of those fics, young Lectricy, young Outcrier
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-18
Updated: 2018-06-18
Packaged: 2019-05-25 14:14:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14978900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrashTrash/pseuds/CrashTrash
Summary: The only way to get to the top is by clawing your way there, but Crier couldn’t do it alone. He needed help.





	I Need You

**Author's Note:**

> —————PLEASE READ ME—————
> 
> Yes, this is a fic with ABO Dynamics however!! The story does not necessarily need there to be dynamics in order to work so if pack dynamics aren’t your jam then you can disregard them in this fic. 
> 
> This is a SLOW and PAINFUL burn when it comes to Outcrier and Lectricy. It’s hard fought and starts off in a horrible way, but please be patient and you will see the burn come to it’s head. 
> 
> All warnings above apply STRONGLY so if you are triggered easily by references to drug addiction, suicidal thoughts, rape/underage rape, please PLEASE be wary of this fic. 
> 
> ^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

He couldn’t do it anymore. 

From the constant pain in his hips to the everpresent soreness of his scalp from members of the gang pulling at his hair- everything reminded him that he was powerless against them. He got no sympathy from anyone in the small collection of wastelanders they were currently saddled in with. Their eyes turned from his direction when he cried out for help. Constantly drugged and bound, he had no one but himself. That was...until he saw the boy. 

———

Crier had first joined the gang when he was thirteen. He had no family or relatives to take care of him after the world went to shit so he thought rolling with an Alpha gang was safer than staying at the makeshift orphanage he had been kept in. His rash decision turned out to be the worst he’d ever make in his life. They took him readily and had him alternate riding on the pillion of their motorbikes as they traveled the wastes in search of settlements to raid. 

In the beginning, there were no jeers towards the kid. He was treated like one of their own, even given a small leather jacket with their insignia on it as a token of his new membership. 

He rolled with them for two years that way, riding bikes and learning how to fight like them, talk big like them, be loud like them- dominate the world like they did. The day he presented, however, was the day his dreams of becoming one of them died. 

At first, he thought it was just dehydration, but soon his symptoms became worse. The heat in his chest, the dizziness in his head, and the slick between his legs was a dead giveaway. No. No! He had screamed at himself, at the bikers now circling him, at the world for fucking up his entire life. They were upon him immediately, fighting over his virginity like wolves. Blood was shed between them, but Crier didn’t appreciate it at all. He’d rather have his own blood shed than anyone else’s at that moment. 

The final nail in his coffin had been the moment he was on his back staring into the eyes of Jackpot, his first mentor, and the gang member he had once thought was his closest friend. He was the first of many that day. The pain of being forcefully opened up for them had the boy screaming into the wastes for hours until he couldn’t take it anymore and passed out. It had been Jackpot that had dubbed the boy the Outcrier, and his life was never the same after that. 

——— 

At any time and any place he could be called by a member to service them. He was stripped of his once-precious jacket and given a leather collar instead. They called him things like pet, pup, and dingo often and relentlessly. He’d even lost the privilege of riding pillions and was instead kept leashed in the back of the gang’s Jeep. 

He stopped talking after ten days, but he never stopped screaming.

His entire body would go numb from the abuse some days. The large bruises, bigger than his fists, would pepper his lithe form for weeks at a time. Burn holes from cigars lined his rib cage and down his back along with scars from knife wounds, never deep enough to kill but always enough to have him howling in pain. He would scream himself hoarse only to be punched and taken again for his ‘misbehavior.’ 

The one thing he was grateful for was the fact that the radiation had made the bastards infertile. He was spared the pain of a possible teen pregnancy, but the verbal insults kept him from feeling relieved about it. 

They would call him every name under the sun, kick him in the stomach and say they were killing the piece of shit that might be in there. Even if Crier knew there was nothing in him to kill, he would cry at the pain and loss he would feel every time. It wasn’t that he wanted to have one of their disgusting children, but the excrutiating and everpresent loneliness he felt brought on violent emotional reactions ranging from needing to have a baby to wanting to slice open his own stomach to make sure he could never conceive. 

In the end, he never could push himself to harm his womb and ruin the possibility of carrying a child, but that didn’t stop him from hating everything about his body that made the alphas of the gang want him. 

That loneliness and self hatred clung onto Crier’s heart for years as his anger against the gang grew and sweltered. 

———

He counted the days as best he could, trying to keep some semblance of normalcy in his life. If his days were right, he’d be twenty by now. 

As he grew, his body changed and began to bloom to adulthood. He was bulkier, his shoulders wider, and his arms filled out with more muscle despite his lack of proper nutrition in the passing years. The more paranoid members of the gang had decided to keep the boy under their control, they would gag him with a bandana soaked in fuel and have him huff the fumes till he would pass out or be still. It was a system that the Outcrier found excrutiating. 

If the constant headaches and missing time weren’t enough, the feeling of having to throw up every few hours or so was enough to make him compliant. He would keep himself small, do anything they wanted, just to keep himself from being forced to huff again. 

Of course, he couldn’t stay sober for too long, especially when the gang stopped into settlements to resupply themselves. 

———

When he opened his eyes again, he groaned at the bright light streaming through the tattered tarp over his ‘bed’ of rags in the back of the Jeep. His hands and feet were bound behind him with rough rope and his heartbeat was beating like a drum in his skull. The feeling of nausea permeated his entire being as he slowly pushed himself into a kneeling position to look out over the side of the vehicle.

His memory was hazy, but he recognized the settlement they were in. One they visited frequently because of its location to their base in the sand hills to the west. It was there, in the back of the gang Jeep, bound and faded, where he first saw the boy.


End file.
